Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

And Fred had looked at him, his sharp eyes snapping with amusement, and said no, he would not even consider it, and then, as if eager to extract as much pleasure from the interview as possible, had added that he would give Alexander a very good price for the Monet.

  He would probably have spared Virginia even then; had she not sided with her father over the house, and said opening to the public seemed to her a sensible thing to do, that Blenheim and Castle Howard had not been damaged by the experience, that at least the house would be safe. He had been so angry, then, he had wanted to hurt her so much; and it had been then, at that moment, that he had seen what he would have to do.

  It had been quite complex, really, pulling all the elements together; but he had enjoyed it in a way.

  Suggesting to his mother that he took Georgina up to stay with her, that had been a master stroke: ‘Ma?’ he had said, ‘Ma, I think this nonsense has gone on long enough. I am terribly terribly sorry to have been loyal to Virginia, in keeping the children from you; it has been very difficult, but I can see I was wrong. If you will forgive me and allow me to at least bring Georgina up to see you, it would make me very happy. She is the most amazing child, mature far beyond her years, I know you will love her.’

  And after an initial coldness, his mother had been so delighted, so eager to meet her grandchildren, that her pleasure alone eased any guilt he had been feeling. And then once they had been there, seeing how much she liked Georgina, how happy she was, it had been ridiculously easy to suggest that she should meet Charlotte and Max too. It would be very bleak for Virginia, alone at Hartest, without the children, with no Easter egg hunt to run, no lunch party, no one to talk to. But then it had been bleak for him, alone there too, even though he had had the children, for almost two months; she would see perhaps how hard it was for him to bear, and be sorry. And it had been a master stroke taking the children off on a camping trip, so they wouldn’t even be at the castle if she wanted to speak to them.

  It had been quite easy, finding out about her new prospective clients. They were all listed in her files. Virginia’s efficiency was awe-inspiring.

  And then they each received a call, from her doctor at the clinic, and then from himself, saying she was really not very well just at the moment, not well enough to be taking on any more work, and that it would be a kindness simply not to give her the business; that had been easy too.

  And a similar call to Catriona Dunbar, telling her that Virginia was simply not up to taking on the strain of the Riding for the Disabled Committee (which Virginia had told him she had decided to accept, that she was pleased to have been asked) and that the kindest thing she could do was pretend it was too late, that they had someone else on the committee now.

  Probably that would be enough. Of course he couldn’t be sure; but the situation was very promising. She would be alone, vulnerable, depressed. Nanny was away, and she would be too hurt at Catriona’s rejection to spend any time with the Dunbars. He had made sure that the door to the cellar was unlocked. It might not work, but it probably would.

  When they got back from Scotland, she had undoubtedly been drinking. She wasn’t quite drunk, but she had been drinking. He could smell it on her breath. He was distant with her, cold.

  Next day she was drinking again. And then the children went back to school, and she went to London and he left her forty-eight hours and then went to find her, and she was hopelessly drunk. And that night, as they sat having dinner, he told her that it was going to break his heart, but he thought he would have to open Hartest to the public after all. He followed her out to the kitchen; she was making herself a hot drink, she said. The hot drink smelled reassuringly of whisky. He drove back to Hartest that night.

  Baby phoned him. He said he had called Virginia in London, as Alexander had suggested, and that she had sounded very drunk. Was she drinking again? Hadn’t she just been to a clinic to dry out?

  Alexander had said, yes, she was drinking, heavily, and he didn’t know what to do. The doctor had said it was the strain, worry about Hartest. He was distracted and worried himself, unable to care for her adequately. And of course her clinic bills had been enormous, running into thousands.

  Baby said he would pay the clinic bills and asked what Alexander was going to do about Hartest.

  Alexander told him he simply didn’t know.

  He arranged for Virginia to go back into the clinic. He rang Baby and told him, thanked him for his help.

  Fred rang. He said he couldn’t have Virginia sick again, that it was disgusting and appallingly bad for the children and both family names, and that if the new roof was going to cure her, then there had better be a new roof.

  When he saw how happy Virginia was at the news, he almost managed to persuade himself that he had been telling Baby the truth.

  Chapter 41

  Angie, 1985

  ‘OK, I want the whole truth,’ said Angie. ‘No hedging, no sparing my feelings. Just tell me. Please.’

  She was very pale; her eyes looked enormous. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater, and cowboy boots. Dr Curtis smiled at her.

  ‘You look hardly old enough,’ he said, ‘to be Mr Praeger’s wife. More like his daughter.’

  ‘I’m not his wife,’ said Angie briefly, ‘and I do assure you I’m a lot older than his daughter. But I do love him and I live with him, I’m the mother of some of his children, and I need to know what I’m in for. I’m getting a little tired of all this evasion.’

  Dr Curtis looked at her sharply. Her lip and her voice had quivered just momentarily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss –’

  ‘Burbank.’

  ‘Burbank. I didn’t mean to be evasive. You’re obviously a brave girl. All right, then, I’ll give you the whole truth. Mr Praeger has, as you know, motor neuron disease. A wasting away of the cell stations and the neurons, that is to say nerves from the brain, responsible for moving muscles. As they waste, the muscles waste. There is a consequent weakness throughout the limbs. As the disease progresses, the arms and legs become not only weak but stiff, and they often twitch. Walking becomes increasingly hard and it is very difficult for the patient to hold anything.’ He paused. ‘Is this really what you want to know?’

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on his like a rabbit with a fox.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I want to. But I need to.’

  ‘Very well. Later, there is a problem with the control of speech – it will be slurred initially, eventually becoming almost unintelligible. Eating is another problem, swallowing is difficult, and there is a danger of choking. Some patients –’ He paused.

  ‘Yes? Some patients what?’

  ‘Some patients tend to dribble, they cannot control the flow of saliva, you see.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Angie.

  ‘Your – Mr Praeger’s chest muscles will become weak, his breathing may be difficult, especially at night.’

  ‘Treatment?’ asked Angie very quietly.

  ‘None, really. Physiotherapy can be helpful. Gentle swimming can help the muscles. Splints can be made to help the grip. Drugs can ease the muscular jerking.’

  ‘And – what is the prognosis? I mean how long does he have?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Three to five years. Maybe less. Few people live for more than five years after diagnosis.’

  ‘I see,’ said Angie. ‘Well, thank you. It may seem a little hard for you to believe but I feel better now. Does Mr Praeger know all this?’

  ‘I have given him a slightly – shall we say – sanitized version. I have certainly not buoyed him up with false hopes.’

  ‘Good. None of it sounds too sanitized.’ She smiled briefly. ‘So Dr Curtis, what should I do? Should he be encouraged to give up work?’

  ‘Absolutely not. If he enjoys it. But I have to say, in all honesty, I don’t think he will be able to work for very long. He –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He seems to be deteriorating quite fast. The right hand is considerably weaker than I would have expec
ted at this stage.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was a small bleak sound.

  ‘The worst thing, of course, is coming to terms with it. And living with it. Recognizing what has to happen. Accepting what help can be given. False hopes are definitely not helpful. He must confront it, and try to accept it.’

  ‘He’ll confront it all right,’ said Angie, ‘but I don’t think he’ll ever accept it.’

  Angie felt very odd, frightened and yet oddly calm at the same time. She went for a walk in Regent’s Park, looked at the trees with their fresh green leaves and thought inconsequentially that soon they would turn dusty and brown and start to die, and it seemed oddly and harshly appropriate. She thought of Baby, and what was going to happen to him, saw him frail and immobilized and helpless, his vigour gone, his capacity for extracting pleasure from every corner of his life gone, saw him frail and weak instead of vital and strong, and for perhaps the first time in her life she did not think for a moment of herself, of what it would mean to her, but wondered simply how he would bear it.

  Chapter 42

  Charlotte, 1985

  ‘You cannot be serious!’ McEnroe’s petulant face stared up at the umpire, his racket hanging from an arm limp with disbelief.

  Charlotte smiled indulgently at him; he reminded her of Gabe.

  ‘Spoilt brat!’ said a voice beside her. ‘Needs a good thrashing if you ask me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Charlotte politely. The voice belonged to Brian Watson, MD of Watson and Shell, one of their most important new clients. ‘Mr Watson, your glass is empty, let me find you some more champagne.’

  ‘Thank you, Charlotte. Very kind. Never normally drink at this hour, of course. Need m’nerves soothed, watching that young whippersnapper. Should have been sent to a decent school.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Charlotte carefully. She held out the glass to Baby who was on her other side, nursing the ice box with the champagne in it. ‘Mr Watson’s glass, Baby. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am,’ he said irritably. Irritability was one of the major symptoms manifested by his illness at the moment. Charlotte had never expected to feel sympathy with Angie, but she quite often did these days. Baby passed her the bottle of champagne with his left hand.

  ‘Oh, marvellous!’ Brian Watson was beaming, his hostility to McEnroe temporarily halted. ‘Did you see that ace?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, who hadn’t, passing the glass back to him, ‘and I saw that one,’ she added as McEnroe took his third straight set and the Centre Court roared its usual slightly grudging approval. ‘Shall we go in search of some strawberries, Mr Watson?’

  She filled him a large bowlful, smothered it in cream, took it to him as he sat between Baby and Gus Booth in the hospitality tent, and then excused herself. ‘I want to get an extra programme,’ she said, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  God, this corporate entertaining was hard work; she’d always loved Wimbledon, but this didn’t seem too much like fun at all. Well, if it was helping Baby keep the clients he’d got, it was worth it. The client list still wasn’t looking terribly healthy, even after the launch at Spencer House. And they had a very important prospective client coming along a little later, Jerry Mills from Nicolsons, the electronics people. She rather liked Jerry Mills, he was large and brash and vulgar and fun, very different from the stuffy Brian Watson. And Mrs Watson, with her refinement, her tutting at McEnroe’s behaviour, her ceaseless royal box watching. She had hardly seen a single game since the Princess of Wales had arrived.

  ‘Charlotte!’ said a voice. ‘Hi. How are you?’

  ‘Sarah! I’m fine. How lovely to see you.’ Sarah Ponsonby had been at school with her, they had been prefects together in the sixth.

  ‘I thought you’d gone to New York.’

  ‘Oh – I came back. Long story.’

  ‘But you’re still working with Praegers?’

  ‘Oh, yes of course. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’ve joined you. Well, your world. I’m working for Routledge.’

  ‘Routledge! Really? Is it fun?’

  ‘Great fun. Of course I’m just a frightfully small cog in the wheel, but I have my sights set higher. Gus Booth is with you, isn’t he? How do you like him? I’ve met Jemima a few times, you know she’s a Routledge by birth, and she’s an absolute hoot.’

  ‘Oh, he’s very nice,’ said Charlotte, ‘not exactly a hoot, but still. He’s here, actually. Are you working, Sarah, or watching the tennis?’

  ‘Working,’ said Sarah with a sigh. ‘With a special brief to take care of an important new client. Very lechy. Every time McEnroe swears, he pats my thigh. Oh, God, here he is.’ She switched on a careful smile. ‘Mr Phillips! I hope you’re not deserting us.’

  ‘Of course not. Just looking out for Mrs Phillips, that’s all. She’s late. Spot of bother with the babysitter.’ He nodded at Charlotte and smiled. ‘Enjoying the tennis?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Sarah, ‘Mr Phillips, this is an old school friend of mine, Lady Charlotte Welles. Charlotte, Tom Phillips. A very important person indeed.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Charlotte, smiling, taking Tom Phillips’s hand, feeling its moist, warm, over-effusive grasp. ‘What do you do that you’re so important, Mr Phillips?’

  ‘Oh, run a little company,’ he said, smiling back at her.

  ‘Little company!’ said Sarah. ‘He runs Boscombes, Charlotte, you know, who own all those zillions of local papers.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charlotte. The name did ring a bell.

  It was not until the evening, back at Eaton Place, that Charlotte made the connection. She recalled, with great vividness, the evening at the Ritz. It had been the evening Baby had told her about his illness; when she had made the decision to tell Angie; and the evening he had been telling her his worries about Praegers’ rather limited success. And what had he said? She heard his voice quite clearly in her head: he had said, ‘Gus Booth is working for us right now. Talking to Tom Phillips, from Boscombes. I’m very hopeful about it.’

  But Tom Phillips and Boscombes had failed to come up trumps, to deliver, to join Praegers, and Baby had been visibly upset when he told her.

  And they had gone to Routledge instead; that in itself did not mean a great deal, nothing at all probably, except for a further memory, very recent, of Sarah’s voice saying, ‘Gus Booth is with you. Jemima’s a Routledge by birth.’

  At first Charlotte had been too unhappy, too homesick for New York and for Gabe and her life there to care what happened to Praegers UK, but after a few weeks and learning about, being forced to face the implications of, Baby’s illness, she had become involved, concerned, determined for them to do well, to prove to Fred they could succeed. And it was therapy of a sort.

  She wasn’t sure what made her most unhappy: her banishment from New York, her humiliation at Jeremy’s hands, or the removal of Gabe from her life. They were each, individually, misery enough: set together as components of a whole, they were a source of very severe pain. Jeremy had called her repeatedly and written to her; she had refused to talk to him, to return his calls; she tore his letters up.

  Days without Gabe were dreadful and dead: empty not only of his presence and the constant turmoil he had created in her, but the excitement of working with him, the constant charging of adrenalin; and it was hard for her to separate that from the misery of losing the job she had loved so much, the sense that she was making some kind – quite some kind – of progress, that she was climbing, steadily and relentlessly, towards her ultimate, heady goal. Cast into what seemed like the sleepy backwater of the London office, her future uncertain, uncharted, she felt lost, confused – and unmotivated. The man she was working for, Peter Donaldson, was nice: not a mover and a shaker exactly, but highly competent, and extremely kind and considerate. The main problem was that the days moved at a pace that seemed not just slow, but virtually static; she had left a roller coaster and found herself on a treadmill.

 
Praegers had seemed set to do so well, they were a blue-chip bank, and what did it matter that they were – what was it Gus Booth had called them? – new boys in town? There were dozens of new boys in town and they were all doing really well. Why not Praegers?

  She was having lunch with Charles St Mullin next day, and decided to talk to him about it. She talked to Charles about almost everything that happened to her; he had become her best friend. In her initial misery she had been tempted to resign from Praegers, and train for the Bar, follow in Charles’s footsteps. She had even discussed a change of course with Charles; he had advised her not to make it. He said he felt she had banking in her blood and that she was going to succeed at it. And partly because she knew he was right, partly because she could still see the expression of intense pleasure on Freddy’s face as he engineered her downfall in New York, she set aside the temptation to leave. She was going to stay at Praegers and she was going to win, and one day she would outflank Freddy, and Praegers would be at the very least half hers.

  Meanwhile, Charles was enjoying having her in London again, he said; in fact he felt like writing both to Jeremy Foster and Freddy Praeger personally, to thank them for delivering her back to him.

  They met every week, over long gossipy lunches, discussing the past, their respective presents, and to an extent their futures and how much of them might be shared.

  ‘So I expect it’s silly,’ she said to him, after outlining her story about Routledge and Praegers, ‘but I just think it’s faintly fishy. Don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about your world to know,’ said Charles, ‘I think you need to do a little more investigation into the background.’

  The investigation proved easier than she had expected.

  Charlotte wasn’t sure what she thought about Gemma. She seemed sweet but slightly ridiculous, clearly besotted with Max, hanging on his arm and his every word. ‘She’s exactly what he doesn’t need,’ she had said crossly to Georgina, who was spending a weekend in London with her, ‘making him think he’s God, boosting his ego. If there’s an ego in the world that doesn’t need boosting it’s Max’s.’